


Not right.

by quenive



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Not a ship fic, a request fic, but it is an au, there isn't really a name for this au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9252590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quenive/pseuds/quenive
Summary: "The inevitable finally caught up to you, Dirk," he speaks, though it's not as satisfying as it once was, when his creator was actually alive to hear his taunting words. He opens his mouth to say something else, but stops himself before other words leave him.We all know that hesitation is one hell of a bitch.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Important notes before you read, I guess.
> 
> Since I kinda "opened" my requests, celestialvocalist wanted to see how a scene from an AU we made up ages ago played out. 
> 
> The general idea is Dirk being the head of a certain compound filled with robots and, occasionally, humans (here and there at least). Hal is the only fully sentient thing he created, and it just so happens that he goes rogue. 
> 
> He may or may not have wiped out the few humans that were there. The scene i described is very vague and doesn't explain much, so there's that.
> 
> Have fun.

An ominous glow shines through the room, though its fading luminescence isn't a concern to the figure radiating it. He's stationed on a chair, at a desk, the darkness swallowing him up as it slowly, lightly, caves in around him in a cold embrace. Hal lets it sink in, lets the glimmer of his circuitry fluctuate as it wishes. He's not breathing, there is no need to breathe, though his chest still heaves in a rhythmical motion not uncharacteristic to him. The glow bounces off of the walls as it evenly oscillates, not as calculated as an outsider's eye might presume.

He's there, sitting. The pale silicone of his former skin sits idly in the corner of the room, disposed with seemingly little care. Rounding it up, it took about an hour to get it all off without damaging much of his metal plating, his outer circuitry, or the skin itself. Might come in handy again, eventually, but the very notion is both doubtful and absurd.

The lights flicker on, but it doesn't startle the android carelessly seated by the desk. His demeanor is sloppy, almost human. He'd chuckle at that thought if he was in the mood to snort out snark at the one flicking the lights on. One arm hanging loosely over the back of the comfortable spinny chair, head tilted up greeting the ceiling, and a manspread so wide even Moses tips his hat to this one particular sentient robot. The room turns into an eyebleeding shade of fluorescent blue, purple, whatever. It gobbles up what's left of the faint shine, but it's still fairly visible up close, against his black plating.

The hooded fiend, the cloaked companion. He stands tall and proud and stares down at Hal, who has not budged an inch ever since the lights got turned on. Hal, however, is far from content. His lack of movement isn't because he's comfortable where he's at, per se, but because he's just plain reluctant to twitch. He can't, he can't do anything to provoke the other, even if he personally knows that Sawtooth is perfectly capable of sentient discussion. But sentient discussion aside, he's also well equipped with physical details Hal wasn't "ready" for yet. Could probably wipe the floor with the android, if the rapbot wanted to.

Kind of ironic, giving this much power to a machine meant to amuse, though leaving the artificial intelligence defenseless against the world, having nothing at his disposal other than raw wit and his robo-fists.

His chest begins to rise and fall more frantically. Not because he is taking air in, but because it's embedded deep into his coding, that his body should somehow react to him being anxious, nervous, or both. Invisible to the naked eye, he feels his gears working, the sensitive interior busily moving inside of him. A raspy feeling that came with the soft, inaudible buzz. He looks at Sawtooth, red irises being the only thing on him that dared to move. He wasn't afraid of the machine in front of him, but he sure did show a good dosage of caution.

"Ready?" he asks, simply. No subtext to his words, a voice metallic and too machine to ever be human. A part of Hal feels bad for him and the emotionless twang to those two words alone. Another part feels envious that he isn't able to do the same.

"Yes," Hal replies, seeing fit to sit up straight, pull both of his hands into his lap. He still stared up at Sawtooth, whose glance kept darting back and forth from Hal, to the jumble of silicone at the far end of the room. Well, as far as Hal could see in the other robot's pupilless eyes and subtle head movement, he was silently judging him and computing all possible punishments for the sins of a "malfunctioned" machine. But Sawtooth himself didn't move a robotic muscle, instead he kept his eyes locked on Hal, who could see the inner battle the much taller robot was having with himself, and everything programmed into him.

After all, it's in his coding to unconditionally trust Dirk.

There isn't much that Hal is unable to control when it comes to himself. Nearly every twitch of his body was formerly planned, and executed with great precision. Sometimes he'd slip. Like now, when his lips stretched nearly reluctantly, almost from ear to ear in a cold smile. Or if you will, the warmth of it was subjective. Sawtooth viewed it as a tundra claiming no survivors. Hal looked at it as a furnace. Still lethal, though in a whole different way.

He stood up, Sawtooth stepped aside for Hal to move out of the door.

Keeping the lights off everywhere was an extremely self-indulgent move. Dirk always kept everything bright, whether it be by natural light or artificial. It was always eye-bleedingly illuminated for maximum efficiency. When he walks through the dark corridors, the light of his circuitry is the only thing keeping the darkness away. Until he passes and the light goes, there's no sign of there being anyone. Despite of course the fact that the whole compound was packed full of life, albeit artificial.

And admittedly, not as sentient.

A thought comes to mind when he catches himself standing in front of a specific room on the left, unable to move, and reluctant as well. He shouldn't, he should really turn forward, continue his march of pride to the control room and silently claim his position as the head honcho of this joint. Now that he stripped the last visible, exterior form of humanity he once held so dearly, Hal can finally put this place under a management it deserves. The hand of a machine will always be more precise than that of a human, that's the sad reality to it all.

Sadder than he's willing to admit, judging by the sudden drop of the satisfied grin that was still being a prized decoration on his face up to a mere few seconds ago.

Hal walks into the room, completely aware that he's riling himself up for no good reason again. He can't help it; he's a sucker for self-inflicted hurt. It comes with the whole package of being him, that subconscious wish to just jab a knife into his gut and twist and turn into oblivion. Regardless, he steps next to a red box. Nothing overly dramatic, no spotlight in the center of the room. Just a non see-through red box with the infamous logo on it, shoved into the corner with tubes connected to it from all angles.

Not as dignifying of a way to go, but Hal had a feeling that Dirk would accept nothing more and nothing less than raw decapitation. An inside joke between them at first, now turned into a gruesome demise for the fleshy twin of the bot.

He puts his hand on top of the box, intercepting all the buzzing going down from the inside, distinguishing them from the buzzing in his own limb. He doesn't have the need to sigh, but he still does. For the dramatic effect of it all, if nothing.

"The inevitable finally caught up to you, Dirk," he speaks, though it's not as satisfying as it once was, when his creator was actually alive to hear his taunting words. He opens his mouth to say something else, but stops himself before other words leave him. It's easy to force them out, physically, but there's still the mental blockage hampering his train of thought.

There's a very clear memory playing before his eyes no matter how much he attempts to shoo it the fuck away. The hand on Dirk's head breadbox might have a say in it, but he still keeps it there. For good measure, probably. When's the next time he's going to willingly enter this cursed room?

 

 

Dirk straightens up, his slim figure not unlike Hal’s. Nearly identical other than a few minor differences, the two lock their glares together and throw away the key.

Glare, though not from Hal’s side. His face is as passive as he can make it, albeit irritation is difficult to hide at times. He holds a palm over the cut on his right arm, just below the shoulder. Metal plating is peeking out, and the glow under his skin is starting to reach the surface. Like an ominous blush no one asked for, or the boiling of blood at its finest.

Dirk white-knuckles the sword in his hands, then stretches his fingers against the leather of the handle. It’s a non-verbal threat, one which makes Hal grip his own weapon tighter. The weapon, ironically, being a small pocket knife he happened to get his hands on at the last second. A child to Dirk’s cold steel, though the only protection he had. Dirk takes a step forward. Hal considers stepping back, though calculates the decision enough not to move an artificial muscle. He isn’t flinching, nor stepping back. The rise and fall of his chest is the only indicator of his worry.

“Do not do this, Dirk,” he says, running a thumb over the slit silicone on his arm. He digs the digit into it slowly, almost fidget-like. No nerve receptors there, no pain to be received. It peels slowly, and Hal could see Dirk’s eyes glancing to it for a fraction of a second. “If you customize the shovel that digs your grave, what’s stopping the modification from trying to tip you into the hole?” Hal’s voice shows a type of desperation. Artificial, real? Or learned and used properly, at proper times. “This is all you. A tool isn’t worth shit without a hand to use it.”

Dirk, who has his shades up on his head, has hair going all over the place. It makes him seem less threatening and ridiculous. He’s neither. More fake skin comes off, as if Hal was shedding it like a serpent.

It feels like a buzzer sound was ringing through his head, indicating how purely and utterly wrong Hal was in every way possible. Dirk remained silent for a moment more, before the tension finally got to him.

“Bullshit,” he spits out. “Both of us know you stopped being a literal tool the second your ass slid out of my glasses.”

“Literal? Way to subtext me here, buddy,” Hal scoffs, swinging his arm a little to relieve some tension. It isn’t working.

“Hal,” Dirk says through gritted teeth. He is more expressive than the android, both in tone and facial movements. Dirk is human, flawed, while Hal’s performance beats Dirk’s in every form possible. Physically? They were more or less mismatched, Hal slightly having the upper hand in sheer hand to hand combat. Dirk has a sword, try fighting a stick with a toothpick. “Fucking around isn’t going to get a point across. It isn’t even a point, god damn it.”

“Sure it is,” despite all warnings, Hal fucks around. “It’s all points with me, Dirk. A plethora of sharp edges just dying to get a jab at you,” Hal’s gaze falls down onto Dirk’s sword. It isn’t lowering, not a good sign. “But by the looks of it, it seems that you have got the upper hand here,” he straightens up, the slouch not doing him much justice. “First time’s always a treat.”

Hal digs deeper into his “wound”, now gripping the silicone with his fist. This is by no means easy to do, nor easy to watch. He peals it all the way down and Dirk just watches silently, not believing how big of a jackass his android twin was, is, and will be. Hal takes it off as a glove and throws it to the side, making a show of proving to Dirk how he did nothing to hurt him. The black plating of Hal’s tough exterior is too eye-catching, especially with the red circuitry now glowing furiously.

Dirk, with his shirt damp with blood at his side, matches Hal’s confident stance. Dirk is afraid.

Hal isn’t too far behind him.

“I’ll raise my sword to break you,” Dirk calmly says, calmer than expected of him. “If I don’t, no one fucking will.”

“Please,” Hal feigns disbelief, but he is completely aware that Dirk is more than ready to take him out. Now, more than ever before. After so many threats and promises, Dirk is finally serious. “I could have given more, you know. We could have gone mano e mano, mano e... machino,” stomp on yourself, why not? The knife he held was long switched to his other hand, silently waiting. Brooding.

“The hell is your point?” Dirk is getting fidgety. Not visually, but Hal can sense it. He points to the human’s sword.

“The sword didn’t create me, Dirk,” undeterred, Hal speaks through his own invisible nervousness. “Your hands did. If nothing, I am at least entitled to a fair fight.”

“Yeah, no. Not falling for it. You want a fair fight? Too fucking bad,” now visibly distressed, Dirk takes another step forward. This time Hal steps back, reluctantly. He had no desire to be in the close proximity of the blade, and he was so very near. Dirk’s breaths are heavy. Hal doesn’t breathe. “You’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t off me the second you got the chance to.”

They stare at each other for a minute, two. The calm before the storm, impending doom knocking on their door and begging to be invited in. Dirk blinks, Hal doesn’t.

Hesitation is a bitch.

Hal is faster than him. Dirk’s flashstepping can’t compare to Hal’s speed, although it does rank a close second. The sword digs into Hal’s shoulder, but pain receptors aren’t something he has. Sparks fly, electronic whirring kills the silence of the room.

The only other sound is Dirk’s desperate gasping and choking against Hal’s black plated, silicone free hand. He’s lifted up, toes barely touching the floor, hands clutching the grip much stronger than he originally anticipated.

Hal drops the knife, it clanks against the cold tile floor. With that hand he pulls the sword out of his shoulder. It isn’t fucking anything vital up, judging by the deathgrip he still has on Dirk’s throat. If anything, it just about locked it there, like a pitbull’s jaw. The sword makes a similar clanking sound, albeit emptier. Soulless.

“You’re right,” Hal speaks, looking deep into Dirk’s half-lidded eyes. Dirk’s struggle is getting weaker. It hurts more than it should, Hal notes to himself. But it’s either Dirk or him, and Dirk made his choice the second he swung that sword at him.

Despite all of that, Hal finds himself smiling.

“I would.”

 

 

Hal pulls his hand off the box, as if it suddenly stung him. He steps back, keeping a close eye on the tubes. There’s a screen above it, showing the stats of Dirk’s brain activity. It seems calm, hibernation-like. Hal is at ease with these facts. Something is eating him up from the inside, and it doesn't make him wonder as much as it should. He's aware of everything going on in his system, and aware of many things going on outside of it.

And now, before he claims his spot on the top, as he watches Dirk living outside of his body but trapped in a frame not unlike the shades Hal was trapped in years ago, the android comes to a conclusion. 

"Though not as drastic, I am afraid."

Dirk was not right.

**Author's Note:**

> hello dark'ness my old friend


End file.
